


Secured Scriptures

by erikisahoarderofcandles



Series: Once Upon Another Time [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, M/M, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erikisahoarderofcandles/pseuds/erikisahoarderofcandles
Summary: Ten years later . . . a group of dear old friends are summoned to Phantasma, Coney Island — relationships will be tested, hearts broken . . . but above all, love never dies . . .⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Character(s), Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Male Character(s), Raoul de Chagny & Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: Once Upon Another Time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827841
Kudos: 1





	1. Shepherd Disembarks

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! This is all during Love Never Dies, ten years later, after Phantom of the Opera, in case anyone was confused as to when this is set! I hope you enjoy!

  
“Look, there he is! Shepherd Beauvoir!” 

  
Out of the smoke walks someone who is no longer a boy, but a young man, all traces of soft boyishness erased from the now clean lines of his face. He is dressed elegantly and crisply, neat with not a crease to be seen, a sleek top hat settled upon fine, wavy, honey brown hair. Hands rest gently upon the small, delicate shoulders of a young boy, similarity dressed. The resemblance in both the hair and hunter green eyes is striking. Anxiousness and hesitance is written into every line of the young man’s face, his eyes surveying their surroundings. 

  
“Mister Beauvoir, over here!” 

  
He startles at the snap and bright flash of the cameras, which leave smoke hanging in the air before it dissipates, and makes sure his grip on the boy is gentle, but firm, guiding him closer to him to protect him from the onlookers and their cameras. “No pictures of the boy, do you hear? No pictures of the boy!” He speaks for the first time since disembarking from the ship, with a lilting, warm French accent. 

  
”Hey, Shepherd, sing something! Your first performance in years! Why ain’t ya singing at the Met?”

  
He’s already growing tired of their ceaseless questioning, how they press closer, continuing to snap pictures of him, but thankfully, not of the boy — his son. Refusing to allow his exasperation with them show, he responds politely with that he has been engaged by the well-known impresario, Mr. Oscar Hammerstein, to open his new Manhattan Opera House. They appear to be satisfied with his answer, and instead turn to his son to ask him questions as well. They ooh and ahh at his response, with his child innocence, and Shepherd smiles down fondly, softly at him, his heart and soul filling with warmth and love. 

  
Thunder rumbles, lightning flashes. They move away when it begins to pour and he opens their umbrella, holding it over the two of them to shield them from the rain and guiding his son to the side to make way for a carriage with a hand on his shoulder. It’s a curious carriage, with no horses — peculiar. But perhaps what is the most peculiar is the trio which exit from it, and turn to the pair. They welcome them to America, and tell them that Hammerstein has sent them to escort them. But before he can respond . . . 

  
Gustave breaks from his grip and approaches the carriage, aided by one of the trio up and inside of it. “Gustave!” Exasperated, he puts away their umbrella and follows his son, and the same man who had helped Gustave also helps him up by the hand, and they close the door behind them. Inside, it is warm and sheltered, the seats comfortable and soft. His son tucks himself into his side and he wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him close to him. “Don’t run off like that again without me darling, okay?” 

  
“Yes, Father.” Gustave whispers and a small smile curves his candy floss colored lips, which he brushes gently over his son’s forehead in a light and loving kiss. He does not know, exactly, what will happen here — but they need the money, that’s all. And afterward . . . they will return together to their home in Sweden, and everything will be right with the world once more.


	2. Reunited at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys are liking it so far! things are about to get . . . spicy? Is that the word? I dunno, but enjoy!

  
”Thank you.” He says politely to the trio at the door of the hotel suite — with three equal bows, acknowledging his thanks, they depart. A hand on Gustave’s shoulder, he guides his son into the room, the door closing with a soft click behind them. The boy has a toy the trio had given him clutched in his hands, and immediately goes to sit cross-legged on the floor to examine and play with it. It’s a curious toy, not at all like anything he has seen before — but he supposes, if it entertains him, then it is enough. His son occupied for the moment he moves off to the side to sit on the settee, releasing a soft and nearly inaudible, watching him play but his mind elsewhere. On ten years ago . . . 

  
”Father please, come play with me.” Gustave looks up from his toy — and once more he can see the striking resemblance to his other father. The man he hadn’t allowed himself to think of often for ten years. And how could he? He had left them both, abandoned them . . . his son grew up never knowing he had another father out there. It makes the familiar, burning ache settle within him again, and yet he manages a smile — he’s thankful Gustave does not notice the change in him, or how his face falls ever so slightly. 

  
”Not now, Gustave.” He says gently, shoulders sagging under the weight of his tiredness. It was long and tedious, their journey on the ship, and combined with those who had taken pictures and asked them questions, frankly the whole ordeal has exhausted him. All he longs to do now is rest. Disinterested with his toy for now, Gustave stands from the floor and moves instead to the piano, playing a soft, beautiful tune. 

  
“What’s that?” He stands from the settee, walking to stand next to his son as he continues to play . . . just like his father. Just like Erik. He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart and massages the spot with his fingers, as if that could relieve the ache and longing of ten years. Gustave looks up at him — and aside from his hair and eyes, which he takes after him with, he looks exactly like Erik.  
  
“I don’t know.” Gustave responds truthfully. “It was just here on the piano.” Smiling softly at him he rests his hands on his son’s shoulders, guiding him away from the piano and towards the door of the room where he will be sleeping in. After a moment, he lets go.  


  
“Time for bed now, Gustave. I’ll be in in a minute.” He watches as his boy disappears into the room he was given for their stay, before he turns to pick up the toy he had been given. It’s a curious thing, and not what he’d expected for them to give to him from the floor, but nevertheless he sets it down carefully on the piano. He’s about to follow Gustave into his room to tuck him in when the balcony doors swing open . . . and a tall, imposing figure steps through. For a moment, hunter green eyes and yellow stare at each other. 

  
Then everything goes black.

  
A few moments later, his eyes tentatively flicker open. He remembers . . . He flinches, because he’s no longer on the floor where he had fainted, but on one of the armchairs in the living room. And watching him, carefully reaching for him is . . .

  
“Erik.” He whispers, and his voice trembles. He flinches away as the man tries to run his fingertips over his cheek, gripping the arms of the armchair so tightly that all color pulls away from his knuckles. “Is it . . . is it really you? I thought . . . I thought you were dead.” It was said that he had died, and he’d believed it . . . he’d raised his son, their son, with the belief that the other man had died.

  
If he’s supposed to be dead, then why is he here?


End file.
